Doctor Molly II
by frankenfeels
Summary: Molly returns back to the morgue after three years of adventures with the Doctor with some newfound confidence. Sherlock tries to find the source of this. Collection of one-shots, all set either during or after her time with the Doctor.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Doctor Molly (II)

**Author**: porpoise-song

**Characters**: Dr. Molly Hooper, The Doctor, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Captain Jack Harkness (well, _hello _there sailor!), then mentions of Lestrade, Donna Noble, Martha Jones, and Mickey Smith.

**Rating**: G (however, it may go up, by a bit though. Don't know...I haven't _exactly _planned everything out yet.)

**Disclaimer**: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella shaped bruises on me (Mark Gatiss), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie chasing me (Sir Author Conan Doyle) and some 60s/70s/80s dressed zombies (Doctor Who's respective owners, creators, producers, writers, actors, etc.), I need to say that I own absolutely nothing.

**Summary**: From anonymous: "After The Great Game, Molly runs into the Doctor (I was thinking Ten from when he thought he didn't deserve a Companion but which ever Doctor you think would suit is fine) She becomes his Companion for three years or so and after many adventures, he drops her off when and where he picked her up (and man that took long enough, didn't it?) But the next day, when Molly goes in to work, Sherlock knows there's something different about her. Her hair, her musculature, her confidence levels, the way she has to remember to react to talk about Jim or to him, something has definitely changed. Sherlock drives himself and everyone else nearly mad trying to figure out what happened to Molly. Then the Cybermen/Daleks/Archon attack St Bart's and only Molly knows what to do. bonus points for Martha Jones showing up to offer Molly a job with UNIT ala the "Want to see some more?" scene in A Study In Pink."

****Warnings**: **Nothing really; spoilers for The Great Game, but, it's been over year since it's aired so I can talk about it. All. I. Want!

**A/N**: Prompt from anonymous at sherlockbbc_fic's Prompting XVI. Also, this in no way is in affiliation with my other Doctor Molly story. This said prompter said that she liked the original one, but said that she'd like a new one though (I didn't mind, of course). However, the Doctor and Molly probably met in the same way in the other story so - yeah. Also, of course, this is after the Ponds have left (not even going to mention _how _and _when _they left - they just left). The actual story is finished (if there ever was one, give me a shout please), but I've agreed (happily) to do one-shots of Molly either with the Doctor or afterwards. Either way - Molly is a total badass.

I hope you enjoy!

* * *

><p>He had been brought in at the beginning of her shift. She had spent the last few hours trying to track down her boyfriend—or ex-boyfriend. She wasn't entirely sure if he not showing up at the Fox at six was his way of breaking up with her.<p>

_It doesn't matter_; she thought to herself as the orderly quickly rushed out the door, Sherlock said he was gay and, although she wished he was wrong, her experience showed that he was always right. She let out a resigned melancholy sigh and unzipped the bag to reveal a man, in his late twenties that, at a glance, looked like he had died from some sort of poisoning. _He isn't a bad looking guy_, Molly thought studying him intently. His chin was a bit big and he didn't have distinct eyebrows—but, she let out another sigh, Sherlock wasn't attractive by normal standards either, but she was attracted to him.

She took a scalpel in her hand and made her way to his chest. "What's brown and sounds like a bell?" she muttered; her voice and smile strained with force cheerfulness. She always made little jokes and told stories to her cadavers. She patted the man's floppy brown hair before she lightly placed the blade on his chest.

"Dung!" the man suddenly yelled out.

"Ah!" Molly screamed out in terror, grabbing the metal tray and hitting it against his head.

"Ow!" he hissed out, grabbing his forehead and sitting up. "What was that for?"

"You're dead", Molly croaked out, taking a few steps back. "Dead people are supposed to _stay _dead."

"Well, that doesn't give you the excuse to give them a knock on the head."

"If anything, that'll teach them _not_ to scare someone holding a sharp object", Molly snapped back, subconsciously taking a step towards him.

"I apologize for scaring you then." He looked around at his surroundings. "What am I doing in a morgue?"

"You were found in an alley near Trafalgar Square, dead by poison, it seems, and so, logically, you were brought to a morgue. However, the real question is _how _are _you _alive?" Molly took another step to him, somehow drawn to him.

"Is this what name they gave me?" he picked up the clipboard, ignoring her question. "_Referral Number Eleven-Two-Eight-Eighty-Two_?" He looked at her, accusingly, as if it was _her_ fault that he was stuck with such a lousy name. "What rubbish."

"I was going to give you another name—a proper name", Molly said quietly.

"Like what?" he asked, his voice becoming excited.

Molly slightly blushed, thrilled to have a man—a good-looking man, at that—actually interested in what she thought. "A name like Pennyfeather,—nobody would _ever _forget a man with a name like Pennyfeather...and I would have given you an Oxford education as well. You would have been a happier man—wrestling with Plato in the morning, arguing with Voltaire in the afternoon, and having sup with Gibran in the evening. I would have made you a philosopher or an English professor, you see, and I think that could have made up for you dying, alone, in an alley."

"I have actually done those things", he muttered to himself, before he shifted himself off the gurney. "But, you would have given me all that?"

"Yes. It gets quite boring down here and an interesting case only pops in once in a while, as does he, and, so, I have to do something to amuse myself. Coming up with stories about the people in here does the trick—I don't know...I feel like I've given them a way to live one more time; living out their dreams and inspirations. Besides, you _look _like a philosopher...or an ancient traveller of some sorts."

He smiled warmly at her and his eyes were twinkling in delight and amusement, "Well, thank you Dr.—?"

"Hooper!" she squeaked out, blushing furiously. "Dr. Hooper, but you can just call me Molly."

"Well, Molly"—he started before he vociferated, "Blimey! I'm naked!"

Molly giggled and turned away, "Of course, you're naked! I was about to dissect you. Nevertheless, since you have an advantage over me and already know my name, you _must _tell me yours."

"The Doctor", he said, lazily grabbing the white sheet to cover himself.

"The Doctor?" Molly muttered out, before her face fell in realization. She turns back to him, "You're the Doctor! Of course you can't die! You change, but never die."

He smiled at her, "Yes, precisely. How did you know?"

"I'm bored most of the time and I have the internet", she glanced down at her scuffed, unisex shoes, "As you can see, I don't have much of a social life."

"Ah, well, I don't see anything wrong about that—having a social life is, simply, overrated." He leaned towards her, "By the way—you wouldn't happen to know where I could get some clothes, do you?"

* * *

><p>He's messing with the TARDIS when she walks up to him, a suitcase in hand and her lab coat swung over her right arm. She's going to miss watching him fiddle around the TARDIS, acting as if he knows exactly what he's doing. He suddenly stops in his movements and turns around.<p>

"You're leaving." He says it simply.

Molly lowly nods her head and glances down at her feet. "I don't want to—but, I have to. I got to." She looks at him and stares him in the eyes. "I'd rather leave by my own account—I don't want the decision to be made by another force." She's trying not to cry and go back on her decision.

He rubs his nose—trying not to cry, she thinks—and turns back around to grab something. "I want you to have these", he gives her a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses. "I want you to have my _brainy-specs_."

She takes them and studies them as he fondly remembers his encounter with his fifth regeneration. "Thank you Doctor", she says quietly and then looks back up at him; her eyes are glassy with tears. He pulls her into a tight hug. She digs her nose into the crook of his neck and deeply inhales, trying to stop herself from crying and to remember his smell. The smell will forever be burned into her brain and, if she tries, she'll be able to smell him when she's at her loneliest and at her end's meet: books, vanilla, and a hint of tobacco, although she's never seen him _near _the stuff.

"I should be thanking you too, Molly", he murmurs into her yellow wool coat. "Thank you for all the adventures and for saving my arse countless times."

She, with high regrets, pulls away and holds out her hand. "Goodbye Doctor. Visit me sometime—I hope to see you again." He shakes her hand and then nudges his head to the door. She picks up her suitcase and walks to the door. Her hand makes it as far as the doorknob before she looks back. "Do you remember when you told me that some of your companions are worse off after they leave?"

He slowly nods.

"I'm not. I'm a better person for having known you, Doctor; I'm a kinder, more confident, more independent woman 'cause of you. And I wouldn't trade _anything _in the universe for our time together—and I'm willing to bet that _they _wouldn't either." She smiles at him and he smiles back, tears shining in his eyes. Molly exits the TARDIS, hopefully not for the last time, and finds herself back in her morgue, everything the way it looked when she left three years ago (in relative time).

She steps away and watches the TARDIS disappear. Its wheezing sound is the most beautiful sound she's ever heard. She smiles and inhales a deep breath. She takes off her coat, places it and the suitcase under the table, puts on her lab coat, and goes back to work.

* * *

><p>She enjoys wearing his "brainy-specs" while she's working. They make her feel smarter and more observant, although, if the Doctor were there right now, he'd be telling her that if she got any smarter; she'd be muscling in on his territory.<p>

Sherlock and John enter her morgue about two hours after she returns, both covered in blood, soaking wet, laughing, and _so _pulveratricious. She narrows her eyes at them. "Lemme guess...explosion at a pool, judging by the scorch marks and the distinct smell of chlorine." She crocks an eyebrow at them, "Am I right?"

John sheepishly nods while Sherlock just frowns and quickly studies her. When she left, she had long hair that was tied up in a ponytail—now she has a neck-length, curly bob and, before, she was wearing some unflattering, unisex clothes, but she's now wearing a flattering gray dress that was showing more skin than Molly had ever shown at work. Lastly, and more importantly, she's wearing...makeup! Properly put on, right with her skin colour and face, eye, and lip shape, makeup!

"Molly"—John uneasily says. "Would you mind, y'know, patching us up?"

She glances at them and knows that arguing and her insistence that they go to Emerge would be futile. "Yes", she sighs out, "Why not?" She goes and gets the first aid kit, feeling Sherlock's intense and studying gaze on her the whole time.

Almost immediately, after she patches them up and sends them on their way, Lestrade comes in and asks her to come down to Scotland Yard for some questions about her boyfriend. There, they tell her that her "boyfriend" Jim isn't who she thinks he is. That he's really the criminal mastermind, Moriarty, who was responsible for all those bombings over the past few days, and that, only a few hours ago, tried to kill Sherlock and John.

She sits there, cool, calm, and slightly bored. She assumes that she's supposed to be crying (_You're mistaken, Detective Inspector!_ she thinks) and blubbering, but she's not. And then, he gets to the part where he starts yelling at her and demanding that she tells him everything about Moriarty.

"I don't know anything about him", she says coolly. "Not at anytime during our brief and, if I say so, _lukewarm _relationship, did he reveal himself to be a criminal of any kind." She looks him in the eye. "He only used me to get close to Sherlock—I was just a pawn in his and Sherlock's game."

He lets her go shortly after, having nothing to hold her on. He believes her, but still has his doubts. Everybody does, honestly. She returns to work the next day, declining the hospital's offer of a two-week leave. "I'm over it", she tells them, rage threatening to burst into her soft voice. There must be some steel cord in her throat because, when another person tried to reason with her, she cuts them down like a file.

* * *

><p>She hears about Moriarty when the Doctor takes her to London, 2021. She's closely following him as he explains the difference between Ju'wes and Re'nars, although they were <em>nowhere near <em>their planets. She suddenly stops when they pass a bookstore and stares at a window display for a book—written by Dr. John H. Watson about his adventures with Sherlock Holmes. By the time he finds her, she's one quarter of the way through it.

She's silently crying when he takes the book out of her hands. "Hey", he gently grabs her hand. "What's wrong?" She doesn't say anything; just flickers her eyes to the book. "Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson", he picks up the book. "Very brilliant chaps, if I say so myself", he says casually.

Finally, out of frustration, she tells him everything. How she had a stupid, schoolgirl crush on Sherlock Holmes, how he used and toyed with her, and how _incredibly _stupid she now feels after reading about her would-if boyfriend, Jim, actually being Moriarty and just using her to get close to Sherlock.

When she's done spilling everything, he gently takes her hand. "You're not stupid—and it was _not _your fault. If Sherlock couldn't see it, then nobody could, honestly. Besides, if _they _can't see you for what your worth then—then the hell with them." He stands up, holds out his hand, and smiles down at her. "Now, I think a trip to the Eye of Orion will cheer you up quite nicely."

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John don't appear back at the morgue for another week. "Trying to give me some space", she mutters to herself when she leaves for home. When she first arrives home after her long trip, she tracks down Toby and practically <em>squeezes <em>the life out of him. She curls up and falls asleep with him in her arms.

When Sherlock and John finally _do _appear back at the morgue, Sherlock is still giving her the same look he had after the pool explosion. She runs her hand through her hair, rubs her face, and cleans off her "brainy-specs", and, thinks to herself, _'Is there something on my face?' _But, there's always nothing on her face, so, she continues in her work, a bit paranoid and self-conscious; however, before it can completely take over her and reduce her back to what she was before, the smell of the Doctor returns to her and she marches on, unfazed.

He really unnerves her—like pre-Doctor kind of nerves—when she casually says, with John and Lestrade in the room, that the fifty-seven year old, banker, Mr. Michael Anchovy, was poisoned by the prick of a needle by his son, clearly by the pattern of the bruises on his ankle. "Oh so sorry", she pushes her specs up and looks at Sherlock, "Were you about to say that?" Her smile slowly flattens when he gives her _the _look (_'Times a million this time!' _shethinks) and when she notices that both John and Lestrade are trying to suppress their laughs.

She leaves immediately and goes out of her way to avoid him for the next few days. She's quietly working in the morgue a week later when John slips in and silently and pointedly observes her taking Mrs. Winter's heart out. "Yes, John?" she asks softly.

"Hm?" John hums lightly, his eyes trailing up to her face.

"You're here to either pick something up or ask for something—either way, it involves Sherlock", she places her heart in a metal bowl.

"Yes, it involves Sherlock", John awkwardly rubs the back of his neck and avoids looking at her. "Sherlock—well...Sherlock has been acting a bit—_strange_ and has been making everybody a bit—mad."

"John, I'd be more worried if Sherlock _wasn't _acting strange and making everybody mad."

"But—it involves _you_." Molly looks up at John through her specs. "He thinks that you're in league with Moriarty"—Molly heaves out an agitated sigh—"But, I told him that _you're not _with Moriarty."

"You're right", she says, turning her attentions back to Mrs. Winter. "I'm not nor would I _ever _be in league with _That Man_." She's trying to act as if it doesn't offend her, but, it overwhelms her, and she looks back at John, hurt on her face. "Why in the world would Sherlock think something _monstrous _like that?"

"I don't know", he rubs the back of his neck again. "This newfound confidence that you've found is a bit of a mystery to him—I just think that he finds it strange that you're acting like this. Well, frankly, we all do, but that's another story entirely. Lastly, he uses your new look as evidence—'clothes out of her price range', Sherlock says."

"This uncle of mine left me a load of money in his will." She shrugs dismissively, "I think that after all I've been through, I deserved a new wardrobe." She feels the need to make everything clear, and she continues, "And Sherlock's not all that and a bag of chips. I'm willing and ready to work with him, but only if he drops this nonsense."

John slowly nods, accepting her response. He leaves soon thereafter, the remaining time spent there filled with idle small talk and stony silence, and reports back to Sherlock. He's unsatisfied by her response and vows to figure it out.

* * *

><p>He tells her everything—well, as much as he's willing to tell. She doesn't mind that—she's used to people not telling her everything; she's always had to figure it out on her own. The Doctor tells Molly about Gallifrey, the Great Time War, Daleks, and, most importantly,—because he spends the most time on it and stresses it the most—his past companions. Some leave not by their own choice, he says, and some are worse off by just being exposed to him.<p>

He says it with such a resigned melancholy that she doesn't know how to react. She doesn't try to pretend that she understands what he's been through and what he's implying and, so, she gives him a sad smile and gently pats his hand. He seems content with that response and, immediately, he gives her a goofy smile and asks her where they should go next.

She's determined to make herself memorable. When she leaves, she wants to be remembered, like Sarah Jane or Rose. She never falls in love with him. She loves him like a brother, but she's never _in_ love with him, which, frankly, comes as a surprise to both Mickey and Martha when they rejoin the team for an adventure or two.

She tells him that she loves him after a particularly emotionally draining adventure (that involved a woman named Donna Noble). There's fear in his eyes when he glances up at her, but it soon dissipates when he realizes that she loves him as a brother and his tired face softens.

She's brilliant, he says to Martha and Mickey before they leave, and she notices everything to a tee. They're usually mistaken for brother and sister because of this and, after the first dozen times, they just start accepting and introducing themselves as siblings.

"It cuts down on the confusion and, in some cases, the taboo", he tells her the first time he calls her his sister.

Molly is with him when the Master returns—with a face like Sherlock, she muses, but with ginger hair—and when the Master uses the Time Scoop to gather the last three Doctors. She's there when the universe is in danger and about to end—"again", the Doctor always kept quickly adding. She faces Weeping Angel, the Daleks, some Cybermen, and the Sontarans and she faces them with her head held up high, her mind clear and focus, and her hand in his.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John are running down the corridors of St. Bart's, away from an alien. The first time John's been near a <em>real <em>alien and Sherlock just _has _to screw it up by insulting its intelligence. Although the alien is short, ugly, and dumb, he's carrying a rather large gun, and that makes John rather afraid of it. "Basically a Yosemite Sam from outer space", John huffs out as they turn a corner, down another hallway, "And _you _had to make it angry."

At the end of this hallway, is Molly, wearing what appear to be golden yellow rain boots and her white lab coat. She's confidently standing there, with something behind her back when Sherlock and John pass her. John is about to grab her when she holds out her hand to stop him, steps forward, and then begins to speak to the alien.

"Pretty far away from Matriarchina, aren't you? About two hundred million light years away, I'd say." Cockiness is dripping from her words. He suddenly stops and lowers his gun, but he remains silent; still, she takes that as a yes and continues. "Matriarchina—isn't that a matriarchal planet?" She glances at Sherlock and John and smirks at them, not waiting for his response. "You see, the Matriarchina females are tall and beautiful while the males are short and ugly. And while the females are in charge of the government and run the society, the males are left to raise the young."

She looks back at the Matriarchinain. "Tired of being under the rule of Big Sister?" she says in a mocking tone and cocks her head at it.

It finally speaks; snarling in a harsh, deep voice, "I have no idea what you're trying to imply, but"—

"Oh! Short, ugly, _and _stupid." She stands up straighter and lets out a sigh to digress. "I'm invoking the Shadow Proclamation; Article fifty-seven, to be precise. This is a _fully _established level _five _planet—and you're going to _invade _it? What would your mother say to _that_?"

"I don't listen to proclamations _nor _do I listen to my maternal figure"—he growls out.

"Oh, c'mon—we all know that you lot are only invading Earth to prove to the rest of the universe that the males of Matriarchina are _just _as competent as the females." She then says to him in a low voice, "In addition, I think you may have a _wee _crush on your mother. But, don't worry—almost all male life forms in the universe have a varying degree of one."

Molly shifts her hands from behind her back and John notices that she has an umbrella behind her back. "We are a proud race and!"—

"Oh boy! Freud would be having a _field day_ with this!" she giggles out, "But, that doesn't matter—all that does is this." She pauses and says to the Matriarchinain, in such a threatening voice, that John himself feels his toes curl, "Leave now and never come back—or else I'll have to kill you."

The Matriarchinain chuckles and an uneasy feeling begins to grow in John's stomach. "I do not accept threats from _females_."

"Hm, what a pity", Molly lets out a heavy sign and pulls out a remote from her coat pocket. "But, I warned you." She presses a button and the fire alarms start blaring. As she opens her umbrella, the sprinklers turn on, raining a yellow tinted liquid upon all of the Matriarchinains in the hospital.

The Matriarchinain starts to melt, like candle wax, and a lemony scent engulfs the hallways of the hospitals. Sherlock wrinkles his nose, "Lemonade?"

"Yupe", she says, cheerfully, holding out her hand from under the umbrella. "Being pumped down from the canteen. Lemonade contains citric acid, which, in high enough quantities, kills Matriarchinains." She turns to Sherlock and John, a grin on her face. "They have a low acidic tolerance."

"But—but, you _killed _it...him", John stammers out. He never expected Molly Hooper to kill anyone.

"_I warned him_", she stresses to him. "Besides, when he eventually and inevitably returned back to Matriarchina, they would have executed him anyways. But, they would have pumped him full of a diluted form of citric acid and, slowly, he would have burnt to death from the inside." She then shrugs, dismissively, "If anything, I saved him." She then bids them adieu and skips down the hall, humming "Singing in the Rain".

* * *

><p>A week later, Sherlock and John walk into the morgue to find a brown-haired man in a trench coat lowly talking to Molly. Sherlock pointedly clears his throat and is greeted by a wide, pearly grin and a handshake. "Well, <em>hello <em>there—Captain Jack Harkness and who might _you _be?" he drawls out in a flirty American accent. "Oh", he notices John as well and looks him down, "and who might _you _be too?" He holds out his other hand out to John.

"Jack", Molly growls out and gives him a glare the Doctor would be proud of.

"Right", he tells her in a flat voice, looks, and points at her before leaving.

"Who was that?" John innocently asks her.

Sherlock lets out an exasperated sigh, not even going to bother to insult him with a sharp retort. Molly answers him though, with a kind response. "Captain Jack Harkness."

"What is he a captain of?" John asks her; Sherlock is acting like he doesn't want to know, although he does. From what he can deduce, he's knows that this _Captain Jack _is not _really _a captain, but introduces himself as one and is treated as such.

"Royal Air Force—retired though."

"False", Sherlock mutters so lowly that no one hears him. And, before John can continue with this _tedious _interrogation, Sherlock heaves out an annoyed sigh and John takes that as a cue to shut up. As she's giving Sherlock his metacarpals, her mind is buzzing with the conversation she was having with Captain Jack:

"_You're a doctor—in fact; you're a doctor that has travelled with the Doctor for three years."_

"_Yes."_

"_Any good?"_

"_You wouldn't be here if I wasn't."_

"_Seen a lot of aliens then—unexplained events."_

"_Well, yes."_

"_A bit of trouble too, I bet."_

"_Of course—yes. Enough for a lifetime—far too much."_

"_Wanna see some more?"_

"_Oh god, yes."_


	2. Chapter 2

First one of these one-shots! If any of you are wondering why it jumps in time - just remember what fanfiction your reading. That's right, _Doctor Who_. It would be a crime against my little fangirl heart if I didn't jump all over space and time. Obviously, you'll get when it's happening - I hope.

Everything still stands; I own _absolutely _nothing.

* * *

><p>Molly sneaks into the men's locker room at St. Bart's and finds some clothes for the Doctor (that is to his liking: a bowtie and a tweed jacket, although she hasn't a faintest clue who at the hospital wears this). Once dressed, and after he spends almost five minutes fixing the blue bowtie, he bids her farewell. However, he gets as far as the door before he spins around and looks intently at Molly.<p>

"What?" she asks him, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.

"Well", he rubs the back of his neck. "I'm not very good at being coy, so I'm just going to spill it—would you like to come with me?"

She stares at him for almost a minute, wondering why in the world would the Doctor want her to come with him. She calls it ironic that she spends only an hour with him and she has him asking her to come travel in time and space with him, but she spends almost two years with Sherlock and she can't even get him for a coffee date. _All of time and space—everything that has ever happened or ever will...where do you want to start?_

All this time, he's watching her—he's seen this hundreds of times. He crashes into some person's boring and tedious life, takes them on a fun filled adventure, and changes their life forever. He's not completely proud of it, but it's true. He knows what she's going to say. So, it comes as a surprise to him when she finally says, "I'm sorry, but I've got work—and...and thank you, but"—she stops and gestures to the morgue. "But, I have this. It's not much, I know, but I like it here."

She's rather afraid that she's upset him; she can see hurt flash across his features, but he does a rather lovely job of covering it up and regaining his footing. "Oh, don't worry. I understand." He gives her a cheery smile. He points to the exit, "I'll be off then."

"Yes", she says and, even now, the seeds of regret and uncertainty have already been planted in her head. "Be careful, Doctor."

He flashes Molly his patented cocky smirk. "Am I ever not?"

She has to say it to him. It would be a crime _not _to knock him down and, before she can mull over her response, it has already left her lips. "Pray, Doctor, tell me which body are you on now, hm?"

He narrows his eyes at her before chuckling. "Ah, I suppose I should be _more _careful." He smiles at her and she smiles back. "Goodbye, Molly."

"Goodbye, Doctor."

* * *

><p>The next day, Molly Hooper is gone. John asks where she's went, but Mike doesn't know. The <em>next <em>day, Molly's replacement arrives, a forty year old Nigerian man who lives with his wife, three kids, and his mother-in-law and, although he respects his wife's mother, he hates her with every fiber of his being. John silently thanks whatever deity causes Sherlock not to say this to him.

Dr. Buhari, he says is his name as he holds his hand out to Sherlock. "Dr. Hooper has told me all about you and the arrangement that St. Bart's and you have, so don't worry—this arrangement will continue as long as you follow the rules."

"I wasn't", Sherlock mutters lowly, but still shakes the man's hand. "By the way, where _is _Molly?"

"I do not know". He hesitates before continuing—_'Molly told him not to tell me anything'_, Sherlock thinks. "Yesterday, she briefed me before a man in a trench coat rushed in and pulled her out. It seemed urgent."

Sherlock just nods while John shoots him an incredulous look. They spend the next three hours there and Sherlock finds Dr. Buhari to be of _excellent _help.

"A suitable replacement", he mutters as they walk down the hall.

Finally, during their ride back to the flat, John says, "A man in a trench coat? Do you think it was that Captain fellow?"

Sherlock remains silent for a minute or so, his gloved hands placed at his lips. "It is unwise to come to conclusions before one has all the data."

John scoffs at that and looks out the window. "He didn't seem dangerous—I mean, well, he doesn't seem like he's with Moriarty."

"It is also unwise and dangerous to underestimate Moriarty." He lets out a sigh and takes out his mobile. "We've only hit the tip of the iceberg, John. The complete scale of Moriarty's network and empire is not yet known to me." By this time, Sherlock has already typed out three messages and solved a robbery. "If this Captain _was _to be in league with Moriarty, I'd stop him."

By this time, Molly has already dissected the decimated form of a Matriarchinain and a Monoid and, now, she's with Captain Jack, trailing the migratory patterns of Isoluses.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: I don't remember if I told this lot that if you have _any _prompt, idea, situation, etc. that you'd like to see dear Doctor and Molly in, just tell me. I'll attempt to work it in.

As always, I own nothing.

* * *

><p>After the two save the planet of the Vews (which is a swampy, musty planet), the Doctor takes Molly to Paris during springtime in the year of 1958. Somehow, the Doctor wanders off and Molly loses sight of him, which after over a year of travelling with him doesn't come as a total surprise to Molly.<p>

"The first rule of the Doctor is to _not _wander off", she mutters to herself. "And, yet, _he_ _always _does."

When the Doctor finally finds Molly three hours or so later, her hair is cut into a stylised bob, she's wearing makeup, and she's not wearing her drab, baggy clothes anymore—she's wearing a sleeveless, striped dark blue dress and brown wedges. She wobbles over to him.

"What happened to you, Molly?" he exclaims, grabbing her arm.

"I was kidnapped", she mutters lowly.

"You were?" The Doctor's face immediately became enraged.

"No—not really. I accidently wandered into a boutique—yep, start of a joke, I know—and some of the workers grabbed me and started yelling at me for having nice brown hair and high cheekbones, but doing nothing to _utilize _them." She leans closely and whispers to him, "I think they want me to whore myself out or something."

And, for some reason, the Doctor starts laughing hysterically at that. Molly glares at him, thinking _'I could kill you with my brain'_, until he stops and gasps out, "Well—I'll just get you back to the TARDIS and you can get out of these clothes and wash that makeup off, then."

They quickly walk their way back to the TARDIS (well, Molly more wobbles back—she doesn't wear heels that often and these wedges are just too. Darn. High). It is during this somewhat awkward time that Molly realizes that she is receiving looks from men—somewhat attractive men, she notices—and these looks are ones of interest. Once they reach the TARDIS, she grips the Doctor's arm and says, with a wide grin, "I'm rather delighted with this new look. Do you think I look good?"

He studies her. Her body and face always reminded him of Audrey Hepburn—great lady, that Audrey—she wasn't sexy, but, if he had to say, she was very pretty—beautiful, even. "You look lovely", he finally says, a warm smile coming over his face.

He says it with such sincerity that it makes the scarlet colour in her cheeks deepen a shade and Molly quickly enters the TARDIS before the Doctor can catch it. The next place they go is Baard, where her dress is soiled, but she doesn't mind. She manages to distract a guard in it long enough for the Doctor to escape. If only her mother could see her now.

* * *

><p>The next six days drag on painfully. She can't find Jim. She posts an entry on her blog, telling him that she doesn't mind if he's gay or not, but she misses him and he needs to contact her. It's needy, yes, but it gets her point across.<p>

And, although she tells herself she's mad and, therefore, is avoiding him, she searches for Sherlock too. He still shows up, on a sudden rampage of cases, but, every time she tries to "accidently" bump into him, he's never there.

On April 1 at eight o'clock, she enters the hospital for her night shift. She presses the button for the lift and, the last thing she hears before the doors close, is the newscaster reading the story of how the lost Vermeer, worth almost £30 million, was discovered to be a fake by police consultant Sherlock Holmes. She can't help but smile and feel a bit giddy at that.

However, once she reaches the morgue and brings out a corpse, she just stares at it, all of her energy and enthusiasm suddenly sucked out of her. It's a rather boring one tonight. "No offence", she says to him as she pats his hair in reassurance. She's bored—terribly bored. And lonely and—oh god, she really should have taken the Doctor's offer. "But, it's too late now", she mutters to herself. "He's probably already found himself one."

Her train of thought is interrupted by an excited knocking on the observation window. She turns to find the Doctor, with a giddy smile on his face. "Oi Molly! Look!" He then precedes to smash his face against the glass and make his face look even _more _cartoonish. By the time his face is off and the window is covered in smudges and saliva, she's on the floor laughing. "Probably not the best idea", he says, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his tweed jacket. "But, it was worth it", he then says to her once he's on the opposite side of the observation window. He holds out his hand.

She grasps his hand and stands up. If what she's thinking is correct, then he's here for her. If that's the case, she plans to worship _whoever _caused it—whether it is Satan, Yahweh, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster.

They make awkward small talk for a few minutes, then Molly shows the Doctor the inside of an overweight, sixty-two-year old man with cancer of the liver and learns that he doesn't have the _strongest _stomach. After he takes a ragged breath, he asks her, again, if she would like to skip over Mr. Reynaud and come with him instead.

She readily agrees this time and he immediately whisks away to a blue, police box. He pushes open the doors and she spends the next three minutes gaping at the TARDIS before whispering out, "It's bigger on the inside because it's another dimension, right?" He responses with a hurt look (honestly, he looked less hurt when she told him she wasn't going with him) and some annoyed mutters before pulling a lever and the TARDIS shakes, taking them off to another place and time.

* * *

><p>The best birthday that Molly Hooper ever has is her eighth. She is sitting at the kitchen table and, as the candles burn into her white frosting and into her chocolate cake; her parents are behind, arguing about something. She doesn't know—her hands are firmly clasped over her ears and she's humming the birthday song to herself. The next twenty-three birthdays are spent either with an over-bearing, judgmental, lonely mother or by herself. She prefers them when she's alone.<p>

Her thirty-second birthday, however, is spent running through a deserted hotel with endless corridors and locked doors away from giant spiders, trying desperately to find the Doctor. It's not the worst birthday she's ever had. Her thirteenth birthday takes the cake (ahem, birthday). The day before her thirteenth birthday, her father leaves. _I'm not leaving you_; he writes in a letter that she'll never receive. _I'm leaving your mother_. Her thirteenth birthday is filled with drunken insults and shattered bottles from her mother.

When they've killed all the spiders—by simply burning down the hotel after the Doctor and their leader cannot come to a compromise—Molly sits in the control room of the TARDIS, a bit bruised, still trembling a bit, and, overall, depressed. She's not one of those vain people who dread their birthday—she admits, she's human and she can be vain at times. Well, there's some dread of one-year closer to her becoming an old spinster with twenty cats who's going to die, alone, surrounded by her cats and half-finished sweaters. Her mother tells her this during each of their phone conversations.

Just — generally, her birthday isn't the brightest, happiest day of the year and, if it's at all possible, she just wishes that the day goes by as quickly and quietly as can be without any fuss. Well—once she thinks about it—that's pretty much how she wishes all of her days can go.

"Where to next, Molly?" the Doctor cheerfully asks her, walking to the controls, unaware of the sad cloud over Molly. "I was thinking of the Vif planet. The planet's swamps are full of emerald-crusted frogs that have the _loveliest _voices—the voices of angels, really." He suddenly stops and glances over to Molly when all he gets is a gloomy silence. "Molly?" he gently says.

"Oh, yes." Molly snaps out of her trance. "That sounds great", she says in a distant voice and drags her fingers through her long hair. She doesn't know what she just agreed to, but she hopes it's not something _too _terrible.

"Molly—are you alright?" She doesn't respond. "Oh, come on, Molly", he walks over to her, crouches down, and slings his arm around her shoulders. "You know that you can tell me anything." She looks over at him with an earnest smile on his face. "As long as it isn't anything female-y."

"It's nothing really", she says softly, studying her thin, pale hands. "It's just—it's just that today's my birthday, that's all."

"Your birthday!" the Doctor exclaims and stands up. "That's not nothing, Molly! A birthday is joyous occasion! And look at you—just sittin' there like a bump on a log."

"Well, Doctor, my birthdays haven't been the most joyous occasions, thank you very much", she tells him, a bitterness edging its way into her tone.

"Alright, alright", the Doctor mutters to her in a tender tone and crouches down next to her again. "I'm sorry...I know your childhood wasn't the most _pleasant_, but"... He's struggling to find words to comfort her. He rubs the back of his neck in thought, "I'm really out of my depths here,—could you throw me a line or something?"

Molly gives the Doctor a sad smile. "Oh, go and eat some fish custard, why don't you? I'll sulk here for a bit and then I'll come in and eat some blueberry jello pizza. I always enjoy giving you disgusted looks while you do the same to me as well."

The Doctor finally nods, standing up. "But, you'll be okay, right?"

Molly shrugs dismissively, "Of course—call it a birthday tradition."

"Alright", he walks away and leaves Molly to sulk.

She only sulks for about twenty minutes before she hears some noise. "Is that...is that Paul McCartney?" her brows furrow in thought as raises her ear towards the music. "It _is _Paul McCartney!" She stands up and makes her way to the music. She's going to some unfamiliar territory, she is, but she finally makes it to the door where the music is blaring from.

She slowly opens the door and is greeted by a stack of wrapped gifts, balloons, a banner that has "Happy Birthday Molly!" written on it in large, glitter letters, and a giant birthday cake with white icing. She doesn't see the Doctor yet and, warily, she slowly enters the room and walks to the cake.

"Surprise!" the Doctor pops out of the cake, a wide grin on his face and a multi-coloured birthday crown on his floppy-haired head.

"_Christ!_" she yells, smacking her hand on her heart and gasping.

"Happy birthday Molly!"

"Doctor...what's all this for?" she wheezes out. She is utmost determine to keep in her excitement. She knows full well that things can go from great to worst in the snap of a finger.

The Doctor shrugs. "It's your birthday—you silly goose!" His features gradually become blank when she doesn't reply. "And...and friends do nice things for each other. I mean, you've been travelling with me for almost a year, Molly, and I don't keep around people I don't like. You're my friend and I want to make you happy."

Molly blushes a deep crimson red and finally says, in a playful voice and with a budding smile on her face, "Well, thank you—you wiggly worm."

He grins at her and places a sparkly tiara on her head. "Beep."

* * *

><p>After the Doctor and Molly, help the Altair rebels of the Ursa system overthrow the tyrannical Morel Empire in the year 3498, the Doctor, somehow, is cornered into giving a speech to its citizens.<p>

"Hello! Yes, hello! I was asked to give a speech here at your Independence day celebration", he starts, his hands shoved in his pants pockets and rocking on his heels and overlooking a crowd of thousands of eager, blissful citizens. "But I forgot to write one. If I had though, I would have used the word 'vision' a lot 'cause it sounds important."

The crowd of thousands laugh in unison. "That wasn't a joke", he mutters under his breath and, as he turns to walk away, the leader of the rebels, Thomas Blackwood, gently grabs his arm and leads him back to the podium.

"This guy, right?" Thomas chuckles out. "If it wasn't for the Doctor and Ms. Molly Hooper", he pauses to gesture to Molly, who is behind the Doctor, "then we wouldn't be free. It is because of the Doctor's courage and leadership that we are free—so, because of this and his belief and patience in us, I declare that he is to become Ursa's new leader!"

A wave of cheers and applause comes from the crowd as the Doctor and Molly's face falls. "Uh, sorry, Tommy, but I don't want to become ruler", the Doctor stutters out.

"Why not?" Thomas asks the Doctor as the crowd collectively lets out a disheartened sigh.

"I'm sorry, but it's not my business. I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone, if possible—Jew, gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another; living beings are like that. We want to live by each other's happiness, not by each other's misery. We don't want to hate and despise one another. In this world, there's room for everyone and the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone", the Doctor quickly stops talking before he can recite Chaplin's "Great Dictator" speech.

"Then who will become leader?" he asks the Doctor, a worried look on his face.

"You will", the Doctor slaps his hand on his shoulder. "You have a chance to make this place great and wonderful—to make this world a place of science and progress. A new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work that will give you the future and old age a security", the Doctor stops before he slips back into Chaplin. "You just have to try."

Thomas Blackwood gives the Doctor a hopeful grin and a determined nod of his head.

He, the Doctor later tells Molly back at the TARDIS, is quite clever at getting out of becoming leader.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **Once again, I own nothing.

* * *

><p>"Doctor?"<p>

"Hm?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Course you can", he spins around from messing with the control panel to face her slowly making her way to him. "Fire away, Molls."

"Do"—she starts before her cheeks suddenly turn red. "No, no...I can't", she stutters out.

"Oh, _now _you have to tell—you have piqued my interests and, therefore, are under obligation to tell me."

"Yes, yes I am", she sighs out then snaps at him, "But, if you laugh, I'll hit you."

The Doctor knows that Molly wouldn't hurt a fly, but something in her eyes warn him that if his lips even just quiver, his nose is going to be knocked off his face. Still, he nods, "You have my word."

"Okay", she glances away. "Do—do lightsabers exist?" she finally asks after a few moments of silence.

The Doctor stares intently at her, trying not to smirk. It's incredibly difficult, y'know—it's probably one of the most difficult things he's had to do.

Still, all of his hard work is for naught and she snaps at him, offended and angry, "You're laughing!"

"No I'm not!" he defends himself with a serious tone. But, that only lasts for a nanosecond before he's bent over, laughing hysterically, and his face straining with delight and amusement. "Okay, okay, I am", he gasps out, but then raises his hands, defensively, when Molly stomps over to hit him. "But, I am sorry—it's just that nobody has _ever_ asked me that question before", his voice is back to normal although it still has a hint of delight at the end.

"Well that just adds wood to the nerd fire! I get made fun of for solving the Osterhagen theorem at a young age and _now _I'm getting laughed at by the _nerdiest _life form in the universe."

He walks over to her. "Oh, Molly, dear Molly—you shouldn't be embarrassed by your love of unsolvable equations and impossible ideas. That's why we're perfect for each other", he nudges her shoulder and gives her a coy smile. "And no, lightsabers _do not _exist...if they did _I _would have one."

"Yeah", Molly slowly mutters out. "We are the perfect match for each other. By the way, what colour would _your _lightsaber be?"

The Doctor stops to ponder this question and it seems like he's _actually _thinking about it. "Hm, I don't know—that's an interesting question."

"I think that yours would be blue—'cause Luke's first lightsaber was blue and, at times, you remind me of him." She has a grin of triumph on her face before she adds, quickly, but absentmindedly, "But, Yoda had a green lightsaber and you both are over nine-hundred years old."

She nods her head, finally satisfied with her thoughts. "Yours would be green because Yoda's was and the lightsaber Luke makes in between the _Empire Strikes Back _and _Return of the Jedi _is green. And your lightsaber can't be purple 'cause Mace Windu's is"...

All through this, a grin on the Doctor's face slowly encompasses his whole face and, when Molly finally notices it, she cuts off right in the middle of a sentence and snaps at him, "Shut up!"

"Not judging or doing any of the kind." He says it with such sincerity that her anger immediately subsides.

"Would it surprise you if I confessed that, after first seeing Star Wars, I wore my hair in buns like Princess Leia's for over a month?"

"And when was this?" the Doctor asks, as he attempts to keep mischievousness off his face. He starts to rapidly tinker with the controls and typing in a destination. "I _need _a precise date, Molly."

"No, Doctor! No!" she shrieks at him as she chases after him around the control panel.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes has his priorities. His number one priority for the past month is to stop Moriarty. His second priority, right now at this particularly moment, is catch the murderer of Julian Davis, a twenty-six year old waiter in a fish and chip shop that was found the night earlier with his face clubbed in and a red bow tied around his right ankle. However, his priorities shift when he catches the mousy, brown hair of St. Bart's former forensic pathologist, Dr. Molly Hooper, moving quickly east towards the Thames River.<p>

He glances around the alley he's currently digging through and mutters to himself, "It can wait." Quickly, he blends in with a crowd of similarly dressed stockbrokers (_'Three of them are cheating on their wives, two of them are being cheated on, and one will have a stroke in the near future unless he loses twenty to thirty kilos'_) and begins to carefully follow this mousy, brown hair. He gets only about four blocks before he loses sight of her.

He turns into an alley to double back around and, suddenly, comes face-to-face with Molly.

"Quit following me, Sherlock", she tells him curtly.

She's wearing designer clothing, he notices. Just as expensive as his clothes. "Or, as other people say, hello." He flashes a dazzling smile at her.

"Oh, don't play dumb with me Sherlock—perception filters, psychic paper, an antiserum for the Silent's forgetfulness powers...I know when I'm being followed and lied to, Sherlock."

"Alright, Molly", he says, coolly, "I know when I've been beaten—just tell me one thing." Molly raises her eyebrow for him to continue. "What happened to you?" he finally lets out. "Only a month ago, you were this timid forensic pathologist wearing hand-me-downs, and now...now you're confident and wearing designer clothing. Just—what happened to you?"

She hesitates before saying, "One day, Sherlock, you'll know—you'll find out, and I'm sorry...I'm so sorry."

She gives him a sad look and a sad smile. For a man who can deduce everything by just facial movements, a man who can tear someone apart just by the twitch of a facial muscle, he does not know what that look means. He's seen bits and parts of it before in various people—the sad, knowing smile John gives him after Sherlock yells at him when it becomes all too much; the cold, pitying part of the smile that Mycroft gives him when they argue about Mummy. Then there's a hopeful look in her eyes that he's seen in Lestrade's eyes plenty of times.

And then—and then, the corner of her lips are curved upwards and there's a twinkle in her eyes. He's seen that look before; he's seen it on his mother's face. Is it love; is it pride, affection? But, there's something else—sort of an interested, fascinated look, one that she usually reserves for a particularly interesting corpse.

"What do you mean?" he carefully asks her. He doesn't like people knowing things he should know. She doesn't reply and his anger and frustration bursts out of him. "God damn it, Molly—you better tell me", he snaps at her, rage smoldering in his stomach.

"I can't", she tells him, unfazed by his outburst. Anyone else would have said it with pain and sorrow in their voice, but she says it simply, like it's a fact. It's nothing that she can change, but it's nothing that she's particularly happy about. She lets out a resigned melancholy sigh and raises her arm; her gray trench coat's sleeve falling enough to reveal a two to three inch long, black armband with a screen and some buttons on it. "Beware the Reichenbach Falls." It's the last thing she says before she presses a button and a brilliant light flashes, blinding him momentarily, before he regains his eyesight to realize that she's gone.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Not very particularly happy with the first one - doesn't really seem to click, but I've always wanted the Doctor to say "Lord Doctor - Lord of Thyme", so what the hell? Also, second and third ones are going to have multiple parts, so watch out for that.

Furthermore, let's just say that Gwen is dead - never liked her anyways.

I own nothing - absolutely nothing.

* * *

><p>He takes her to early sixteenth century England. However, instead of landing in a field outside of London, they end up in the King's drawing room, right on top of his desk.<p>

"Oops", he awkwardly lets out as he steps over the wooden bits of the former desk. "C'mon along, Molls", he shouts.

"And you landed on his desk", she mutters, stepping over the former desk, and closely following him. "How am I _not _surprised?" They walk into a rather large, grand hallway with red, velvet curtains hung on the walls and gold placed everywhere.

"Oh! Almost two years of travel and you're _still _saying that?" the Doctor suddenly stops walking and turns to her. "Have I become predictable?"

Before Molly can respond—she's, literally, drawing in a breath to give a snarky retort—some horns blare and a vile, nauseating smell flies up the Doctor and Molly's noses. The Doctor's face puckers up and Molly's face only, slightly, takes on a soured look. "Oh god", she moans out. "Dead body—dead body, definitely."

The majestic, wooden door at the end of the hall bursts open and in strolls, an obese man in luxurious clothes and a crown placed atop of his ginger head. He, both the Doctor and Molly surmises, is the source of the repulsive smell and, therefore, is King Henry VIII.

"Ah, King Henry VIII", the Doctor rubs his hands together. "Married his daughter", he mutters cheerfully to Molly.

"What?" she whispers back before the King's booming voice interrupts any further discussion.

"Who are these—_commoners_?" King Henry VIII says, rather disdainfully to a man in a black cloak, who, Molly can only guess is Thomas Cranmer.

"Hello there", the Doctor walks up to the King and holds out his hand before he can answer. "Lord Doctor—Lord of Thyme." The King glances, sneeringly, at the Doctor's hand. "See", the Doctor pulls out his psychic paper and flashes it to both the King and to Cranmer. "And this is my sister"—Molly steps next to the Doctor and he gestures to her—"Lady Molly—Lady of Thyme."

And, because he's Henry VIII and because Molly is an attractive woman, he bends over, gently grabs Molly's hand, and tenderly kisses it. "Milady", he says in a low voice that was meant to curl her toes and melt her insides. However, Molly has had quite enough experience with these kinds of tactics and she, curtly, replies with a "Your Majesty" and a halfhearted curtsey.

"I ask that you dine with me this night", the King unexpectedly says to both of them, but looking intently at Molly.

The Doctor casts a glance at Molly. "It would be an honour, Your Majesty."

It happens—it just happens. Throughout the dinner, where the King makes Molly and the Doctor sit closest to him, he—the King—keeps hitting on Molly (if it's appropriate to use modern jargon). Molly keeps shooting glances at the Doctor for him to help her in any possible way, but, unfortunately, he is rather busy with Catherine Parr, who has taken a fancy to him.

Halfway through the meal, Molly excuses herself and leaves the dining hall. Not but ten minutes goes by before the King is hounding her again. So, her being agitated and uncomfortable, this comes out of Molly's mouth.

"Oh sod off you! I don't like you! I never will—matter of fact, there's something I've always wanted to say to you." She pauses and then yells at him, "You stink! And I mean that in the very literal sense—your leg is wounded and ulcerated and stinks up the whole place. Nobody wants to be around you 'cause of that. And you're fat—a fatty fat fatty and the reason why you keep having daughters and stillborns are because of you, not your wives. And"...she starts losing steam. "And your crown makes your head look too big."

By the time the last words comes out of her mouth, Molly's mind finally catches up to it and she reels in the fact of what she just said—and to _whom _she had said it to. But, she couldn't help it, he was hitting on her, making her feel _extremely _uncomfortable, and—and the Doctor said that you should never back down on what you say if it's how you feel and if it's truthful—and funny.

Thus, her face has to remain strong, confident, and cocky—she couldn't show how scared she is right at that moment. He looks like he's about to retort something scathing back at her—probably about how she won't get a husband with a mouth like that and how he's going to be the one to fix that. _'Oh, please' _she thinks to herself. Her mother has been saying something like that for years.

When he finally says something, what comes out of his mouth is more like "Guards!" and not the endless amount of nasty, cruel insults Molly had amassed in her head. When she finally realizes that he really did yell "Guards", she's already out the door and running back to the TARDIS.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" she yells to the Doctor, grabbing his arm, and pulling him away from Catherine Parr and to the TARDIS. "I just made the King mad!"

"You what?" he yells back at her as he throws open the doors. There are shouts behind them, getting closer and closer.

"I insulted the King", she says back, simply, and closes the doors. He runs up to the control panel as the police box starts rocking. "I told him he stunk and was a fatty."

"Eh, he deserved it", the Doctor says, nonchalantly, shrugging while punching in a random destination.

* * *

><p>A fortnight comes and goes. Sherlock solves a dozen more cases, John tags along with him; Molly and Captain Jack are able to starve off a Sontaran invasion. One cold, Tuesday mid-morning in Russell Square, a body turns up in a garden, behind a deserted building of flats, bearing the markings of a vicious animal attack. Before Lestrade can call Sherlock in, U.N.I.T comes in and takes over the case, shutting Lestrade out. However, before <em>they<em> can do anything, Torchwood swoops in and takes the case away from them.

Currently, at the moment, Colonel Mace of U.N.I.T is yelling at Captain Jack about how "gross" and "insulting" this is. Frankly, Jack doesn't know what Mace is yelling at him about—he's half checking out Mace and half-observing Molly conduct her analysis of the victim.

"Yeah, yeah", Jack finally says, interrupting Colonel Mace, absentmindedly patting Mace on the shoulder and strolls over to Molly, who was finishing her study. "What you got?" he asks her, his hands shoved in his pants pocket, and glances at her as she stands up.

She lets out a sigh. "Well—there's two possibilities...one, it's a grizzly bear on steroids or"...she trails off and gives him a worried look. "Frankly, I'd prefer if it was the first one." She glances back at the frayed and blood-spattered body and nods. "Yupe, definitely wish it was the first one."

"What's the second possibility?"

"A Lupine Wavelength Haemovariform"—Jack gives her a blank look—"otherwise known as a werewolf." She points to the man's ripped body and clothes, gesturing to the wounds, and continues in an excited voice. "The cuts, scratch marks, and bites are too large for any known mammal, feline, canine, or ursidae. And, hey, they wouldn't be calling us in unless it something non-terrestrial about it. Besides"—she holds up two four to five inch brown fur in an evidence bag—"found this on his body _and _last night was a full moon. I'd say time of death was twelve to fourteen hours ago."

But, then, she casts a look at the torn and bloody body. "This is bad—very, very extremely not good", she mutters to him. "There's a werewolf out there and...and I don't have any idea how we're going to catch it."

"But, you know how to kill it, right?" Jack looks down at her.

"Oh yeah", Molly retorts back, cockily. "Over-exposure to moonlight. Piece of cake." He smiles proudly at her and she smiles back at him. "However, I won't know everything until we can get him back to the lab", she says walking away from the body to Colonel Mace.

"Colonel", she drawls out, "Dr. Molly Hooper." She holds out her hand to him and he, slackly, shakes it. "Be a dear and have the body delivered to Torchwood—we'll keep a watch on the police reports in case another body turns up. But, do try to keep a lid on this—we already have a Lupine on the loose, we don't need any headless chickens as well."

She smiles at him and then walks away, but stops and turns back to him. "Oh...and get some plain-clothed men to ask around the neighborhood if anyone heard anything suspicious during the night. We don't need U.N.I.T playing soldiers now, do we?"

Molly continues walking back to the car while Mace gives Jack a dumbfounded look. "Yeah", Jack smirks at him. "She's like that—she was with the Doctor." He winks flirtatiously at Mace and then follows Molly.

"Y'know", Molly starts, opening the car door and glancing at Jack over the roof of the car as he opens his door. "Supposedly, Queen Victoria was bitten by a Lupine and was exposed to Haemovariform cells and had partially become a host. Thus, the entire subsequent Royal family might be partial Haemovariforms." She pauses. "If the Doctor is to be trusted that is."

"Molly", Jack gets into the car and starts it. "Are you saying that it's a member of the Royal Family?"

Molly gets into the car. "Oh, no—this story was just for entertainment purposes. Wasn't it charming?"

* * *

><p>"Here we are!" The Doctor says excitedly, throwing open the doors. "Venice! No wait!" he quickly walks out of the TARDIS and surveys the land. "This isn't Venice", he mutters absentmindedly to himself.<p>

"Quite right on that one, Doctor", Molly steps out of the TARDIS and walks to him. "Granted I've never been to the planet of Venice, but, if what you say is true, it should have more canals and bricks domes and a little less cookie-cutter metal buildings and a 'kill me please' sort of vibe."

In fount of the Doctor and Molly is a sprawling metal city of identical looking grey buildings (the only real difference being the amount of stories). Huge stacks of chimneys rose above the buildings, pumping out smoke into the already grey, cloudy sky. There was no wildlife, no greenery, and no real signs of life.

Molly yawns. "Oh man. I'm getting bored just _looking _at it—no telling how bored the people are down there."

"Now, Molly—if the TARDIS brought us here, then it's because we're needed", he tells her optimistically then mutters lowly, "I just hope we don't die of boredom before then." He points to the city and starts walking to it. "Come on, Molls."

Molly heaves out a sigh, but quickly trails behind the Doctor. It only takes them a few minutes to reach the city. It's deserted and there's no sound except for the grainy, whinny music blaring out of the speakers on every street corner and the distant, electric sound of a subway.

"Okay—don't want to be Velma or anything, buuut", Molly mutters, glancing about the streets. "Jinkies."

"Well, I want to be Fred, so let's split up!" The Doctor excitedly tells Molly. He heaves out a relieved sigh. "I've always wanted to say that—you have _no _idea how long I've been keeping that one in."

"No, Doctor", Molly glares at him. "We're not splitting up—every time we split up, we either booby our way into a trap or we accidently insult royalty."

"First off, _you _insulted Henry VIII"—

"Yeah and you're the one that keeps boobing your way into traps."

The Doctor awkwardly scratches the back of his head. "_Well_, the proportion of you rescuing me has shifted dramatically in the past few adventures. But, come on Molly", the Doctor whines to her. "Three blocks—if we don't see anyone or anything in a three block radius then we'll meet right back here."

"Oh, alright then."

Molly walks down Ford Avenue and the Doctor goes down Marx Drive. On Ford Avenue, there is a large department store ("Henry's") and a couple of restaurants. Molly studies one restaurant ("Freud's") and, seeing movement decides to go in.

The first thought that comes to mind about the restaurant is clean. Very, very clean. Almost, if not cleaner, than her morgue. Everything, like outside, was in monochrome, as if Molly had stepped into a black and white movie.

"Hello?" she carefully calls out.

A man in khaki pops out from behind the counter. "Hello", he smiles cheerfully at her. "How may I help you, m'am?" His eyes are glassed over and, if they were any wildlife in the area, as Molly suspected there wasn't, if a fly had landed on his eye, he wouldn't have moved. His smile seems as if it was plastered on there many years ago.

"Ah, yes", Molly lets out, slowly. "Where am I?"

"Freud's restaurant on Ford Avenue in Huxley City on the great planet of Huxley, you silly goose."

"Right, of course. Could I have a drink please?"

"Of course m'am...what would you like?"

"Uh...anything, anything is fine."

The waiter sharply and mechanically grabs a white cup and places it under a dispenser that shot out a smoky purple liquid into the cup. Molly sits on one of the white barstools as the waiter sets down her drink. "Thank you." Molly carefully studies the liquid. "I'm willing to bet", Molly says quietly to herself and swooshes the liquid around in the cup, "that this is drugged."

She notices the bartender pointedly watching her out of the corner of his eye so she places the cup to her mouth, but does not take any of the liquid in. Instead, she sniffs it. She places the cup back down and, stealthily, licked her upper lip in order to taste the liquid.

She hears the door open and senses that someone has just sat next to her. She expects it to be the Doctor who had somehow found her, however, it is not the Doctor, but a man clad in grey with short, curly black hair, brown eyes, and a pale, handsome, Sicilian face. "See you're an Alpha", the man casually says in a deep, velvety voice.

"What?" Molly glances at him.

"You're wearing grey."

"And that I am." And, indeed, Molly was wearing grey—a grey, slinky jumper dress, a grey, slouchy knitted hat, black tights, and grey heels.

The man motions to the bartender for a drink. "I don't see very many female Alphas."

"Well", Molly pokes her cup towards the edge of the bar, "I suppose I'm just unique, then."

"Unique?" the man says carefully as the bartender sets down his drink. "I don't hear that word much." He takes a sip.

"What a pity", she nudges the cup off the edge and it crashes onto the waxed, checkered floor. "Oh dear, oh my", she says with a practiced voice and eyes it. "I'm so sorry...it just slipped off the counter." She turns her head to the bartender. "I'm so very sorry."

"Oh, don't worry about it, m'am", the bartender says in his unwavering and nerve-grinding cheery voice as he bends down to grab the pieces of glass and wipe up the liquid. "Accidents happen."

"Yes, unfortunately." Molly starts to pick her fingers as she waits for the bartender to leave. After he leaves to throw the shards of cup away, she turns and cocks her head at the man, in interest. "Are you happy?" she asks him abruptly.

He almost chokes on his drink. "I'm sorry?"

"I asked", she repeats slowly, "are you happy?"

"What kind of question is that? Of course, I'm happy", he says rather quickly.

She stops and regards him with eyes so dark, shining, and alive that he feels as if he had said something quite wonderful. But, then, Molly lazily shrugs and looks away from him. "If you say so—how rude of me, I didn't introduce myself before I started asking personal questions. A consequence of travelling with the Doctor, I say." She holds out her hand, "Name's Molly—Molly Hooper. Dr. Molly Hooper, if you'd prefer this to be a professional setting."

He gently takes her hand and shakes it. "Peter Cartwright."

"Well, Mr. Cartwright or Peter or whatever, I'm afraid that I must shorten our chat", she glances towards the door. "I really must dash." She hastily stands up and smiles at him. "Goodbye Peter—it was nice meeting you." She opens the door and quickly leaves.

"Hooper", Peter absentmindedly sighs out and takes a sip. "I never heard of that batch before. A new type of embryo, I suppose."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N**: As always, I own nothing.

* * *

><p>Twenty-four hours passes. Molly conducts her autopsy and is able to bestow an identity upon the victim. "Hywel Granger", she says while handing Jack his files. "Did the shipping forecasts on Radio Four."<p>

"Hm", Jack flips through the file. "I think I know who you're talking about—he had a really nice voice."

"Okay, okay...down boy", Molly mutters unkindly to him. A few moments pass before she cries out, "Oh...so sorry! A _real _mess back there, y'know."

"It's alright, Molly", Jack smiles and pats her hand gently.

Molly lets out an uneasy giggle before saying, "Did U.N.I.T find out anything?"

"Yes", Jack pulls out a stack of papers from below the computer. "Nobody heard or saw anything—except for one person who heard something at around midnight. Manny Bianco...he works at a shop called 'Black Books' at 13 Little Bevan Street, Bloomsbury, London WC1...just off Russell Square."

Molly nods. "Let's go, then", Molly cheerfully says, heading for her red trench coat. "It should be fun."

Jack's face goes blank. "Wait...we're going to go interview him?"

"Yeah", she shrugs into her coat. "You can't exactly expect U.N.I.T to do it properly—they'd probably bust in with their guns waving about, screaming and demanding for answers. They'd just screw everything up."

"Hey! U.N.I.T is _just_ as adept and capable of handling this—okay, let's go", he says quickly before grabbing his trench coat and following Molly out the gate.

* * *

><p>She gets zapped back to the past. That motherfucking Angel zaps her back to New York City, 1962 and—just her luck—it's during the Cuban Missile Crisis so she can't act a bit odd without the government sniffing down her neck, asking where she came from.<p>

She _knew _she should have been paying attention to the statues. There had been reports of people vanishing out of thin air; their cars and all of their personal effects being found later. Knowing full well that there was a good chance that Weeping Angels were involved, Molly, nevertheless, decided to be a "badass" and investigate Kensington Hall by herself. Since the Doctor and she have been against some Weeping Angels in the past, she thought that she would be able to handle them on her own.

When she wakes up from being "time zapped", she finds herself—somewhere. Okay, well that's a bit vague, but Molly can't exactly think clearly for the first few moments. She was near London in 2011 and then—next moment—she's in New York in 1962—say, October-ish, judging by the climate, sounds, and the newspaper she pulls from under her bottom.

"October 30, 1962", she mutters to herself and then she checks her watch. "12:18 in the morning. Blimey." She struggles to stand up and stumbles her way out of the alley she was zapped in. "Ugh", she moans out and, because of her infinite amount of luck, she walks straight into a body. "Bugger."

"Are you alright?" a concerned, male, British accent asks her and a gentle hand appears on her elbow.

"Yes, yes—I am all...right. A-okay", she slurs out. She casts her squinted eyes up at the figure, makes the sign for 'okay', and winks, "Time travel without a capsule...really nasty business, I say."

"I'm sorry?" his brows furrow together and his remarkably blue eyes becomes overshadowed with confusion. Molly, although not in the best state of mind at the moment, thinks he looks absolutely adorable like that.

"I said, 'Time travel without a capsule is really nasty business'."

"Right", the man lets out and draws Molly to a stoop. "I rather think you've had enough to drink." He crouches down next to her and studies her.

"Oh, what should you know?" Molly drawls out. "You're not even a doctor."

"Oi...I _am_ a doctor!" he tells her, offended.

"Not medically while _I'm_ a forensic pathologist..." she trails off and then glances at the man. "But, 't's awright...professor of English isn't too bad either." She pats his arm. "Nothing wrong with that."

"How did you know I'm an English professor?"

"It says so...on your coat...your nametag." She points to his coat and then lazily shrugs. "But, I just saw that...I knew before." Her hand inches its way to her face and strikes her cheek. She blinks for a few seconds, stunned. "Wow...that Angel _really _packed a punch."

She abruptly stands up. "So sorry", she says in her normal voice as the man glances up at her. "Travelling across such great distances of time and space without some sort of protection can _really _do some damage to the head." She nods her head at him and stuffs her hands into her trench coat. "Thanks anyway, sorry again, and goodbye."

She quickly walks away, leaving the man in a crouched and confused position. She takes out her mobile from her coat and tries to turn it on. It's dead. "Damn", she mutters to herself under her breath. She knew she shouldn't have played Tetris on her mobile all day. She swiftly turns around and she sees the man already walking down the street.

She calls out to the man, "Excuse me? Excuse me?" He abruptly stops and she jogs up to him and flashes him a smile. "Could I have ten p—I mean ten cents please?"

"Oh yes, sure", the man smiles back and shoves a hand in his pants pocket to scavenge up some change. "Here you go", he drops a dime in her hand.

"Thank you", she says to him, sweetly, then turns and enters a phone booth. When she punches in the number to the TARDIS, she notices that he's hanging around the booth. "If you're wanting to make sure your investment is sound, don't worry about it", she calls out to him as the dial rings. The Doctor doesn't pick up.

She gently places the phone back on the hook and calmly leaves the booth. She walks pass the man, keeping her eyes off him and says simply to him, "The Doctor is not in." Her eyes quickly flicker to his face. "But, thank you anyways." She nods and walks away.

"Is this Doctor your boyfriend?" he earnestly asks her.

She immediately stops, a surprised look on her face as she carefully breaths in and out to think. "No", she finally says as she turns back around. "He's not."

"Are you in love with him?"

She stiffens. "What makes you say that?" She starts to study him; from what she can tell from the streetlights, he has wavy brown hair, pale skin, a handsome face that she'd surely like to pinch and coo about, and two of the bluest, deepest eyes she has ever seen.

He shrugs and then takes him time to respond. "You sound like you love him."

She pointedly rolls her eyes at him. "Oh this coming from a man who's been a playboy since his one true love broke up with him—what? Two years ago?"

Now it's his turn to stiffen. "How did you know that?"

She purses her lips together. "Quite simple, really, but I've got more important matters to concern myself with." She turns around and mutters to herself, "It looks like I'm going to have to go the long way." She throws a wave over her shoulder. "Evening."

"Oh come on", he catches up to her. "Please, do tell."

Molly giggles. "Oh no...I'm having _much _too fun with this."

"Then let me buy you a cup of tea."

"Bribing me with, what I'm sure is delicious tea, won't work, dear." She gently grabs his arm. "But, that doesn't mean I won't take you up on your offer."

He takes her to a darling, Bohemian café in lower Manhattan that serves some exotic type of teas and delicious scones, where they talk about nothing in particular until Molly excuses herself to try the Doctor again.

"Please don't be engaged", Molly mutters to herself as she drops in the dime and types in the number for the TARDIS. "Please don't be engaged." The Doctor does not answer. "Who are you talking to this time of night?" she angrily yells at the phone and bangs the receiver against the phone booth. She calms down, sets the phone back down, and exits the phone booth with an air of false dignity.

As they walk out the door, after almost three hours, she finally remembers to ask him his name.

* * *

><p>When he wakes up, he's not tied to a chair. Finding this is <em>less <em>surprising than finding dear, sweet Dr. Molly Hooper sitting across from him, with a quaint, slightly smug smile on her face.

"Jim", she purrs out, "How nice it is to see you."

"Hello Molly", he says, not exactly sure how she got in or, even, what to say to her.

"I bet you're wondering why I'm here."

"The thought has crossed my mind", he says carefully. He can't let anything loose; somehow she got in; pass more than a dozen big, veiny men that wouldn't hesitate to kill a woman, even a sweet, puppy-like woman like Molly. He slyly lets his eyes survey the table in fount of him: two glasses, a bottle of expensive vodka (his), and a 9mm pistol right in the middle of the table (his, again).

She opens the vodka, and then pours the alcohol in both of the glasses. "I wanted to have a chat with you, Jim", she says coolly and pushes his vodka to him. "Or should I call you Moriarty? Names can be _so _funny", she tells him in a singsong voice.

He eyes it; he's sure that Molly would go the idiot's route and try to poison him. It would be ironic, though.

Molly lets out an exasperated sigh, rolls her eyes, picks up his glass, and takes a sip of it. "Happy now?"

He nods, but still does not touch the drink. He doesn't drink alcohol; never did. It seems to poison him and set his brain on fire, even with just a sip. It unwinds him and makes him lose control, and he doesn't like it when that happens. Even still, he buys only the best alcohol—just because he doesn't drink it doesn't mean that nobody else does.

Molly takes a sip of her vodka and smiles as she sets the glass down. "Great vodka. You have nice taste. But, I'm sure that you get told that a lot, especially in that Westwood, which is nice, by the way."

"Yes, yes it is. I wore a similar one when Sherlock and I finally had _our _little chat at the pool."

"Oh, yes, I remember that", she nods at him. "Sherlock and John were quite gammy after that."

"And aren't you afraid that I can do the same to you? Even something worse? What I did to you was a bad thing, Molly", he leans in his chair towards her, trying to bait her. "Don't you think so?"

She laughs; she laughs a real belly laugh that seems to come from the tip of her toes. "I'm not afraid of you", she gasps out. Her face and voice suddenly returns back to its calm demeanor. "Honestly, I never was. I've been against more frightening things than you with less protection. And, oh, phish-posh...I haven't thought of _that _in months."

That makes Moriarty pause for a moment to think. "What do you mean 'in months'? It's only been a month and a half", he cagily lets out.

"As I said, I haven't thought of it _in months_", Molly retorts back, dismissively.

Moriarty scrambles for the gun. However, Molly stops him in his tracks by coolly pointing a gun at him. "Whoa, whoa—take it easy there, Jimmy boy." He slowly sits back down she adjusts in her seat. "Now, I'm partial to guns—any feelings of tolerance and acceptance of guns quickly died out with the Doctor—but I have no quarrel shooting you. Once I leave and you see what I've done to your men, you'll know that I'm easily capable of anything without using a gun."

She stands up and lazily shrugs. "Will I kill you?" she lightly chuckles and starts to walk slowly around him. "No. It's not my job _nor_ is it my business to do so."

She stares intently at him before he finally asks her, warily, "What do you want?"

"Ah, now _there _it is...I was wondering when you were going to ask me that. What I want is very simple; you'd have absolutely no problem fulfilling it, I'm sure." She looks away, that quaint smile back on her face. "I have a job for you—as I said, it's very simple. So..."

She sits on the edge of the table and leans in so close that her face is only inches away from his. "Dear Jim, would you please fix it for me to get my Doctor back?"


End file.
